


the art of being

by honeyyoongi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst, Art, Artist Louis, Awkward Romance, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Daddy Issues, Family Issues, Fashion & Couture, Happy Ending, M/M, Model Harry, Painter Louis, Perfectionism, Photographer Harry, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-10-18 14:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10618560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyyoongi/pseuds/honeyyoongi
Summary: “I like you,” Louis tells Harry.“I like you too,” Harry says.“I mean it,” Louis says. “I have never felt this way about anybody before, I mean it.”“I know,” Harry tells him, “me too.”“I’m going to kiss you again,” Louis says. “Is that okay?”And Harry tells him that kissing is okay. And more than kissing is okay, too, if he wants. And Louis does want it, so they slip off to Louis’ room and he puts on a record that Harry doesn’t recognize and Harry is suddenly lying naked in his bed. And it feels right. And Harry lets Louis kiss him in places that nobody has ever kissed him, across his chest and his hips and down his legs. And Louis keeps asking Harry if he’s okay, if it feels okay, and Harry keeps telling you yes, yes, yes it feels wonderful.“I really like you,” Louis says.Harry presses his lips against Louis’ and says, “I really like you too.”~In which Harry is a beautiful and broken boy who takes photographs and Louis is an artist who puts a little light in his life.





	1. there's no water inside this swimming pool

**Author's Note:**

> *May be triggering due to content about body image, body dysphoria, mental illness, and family issues!! Please be safe and happy reading!! x

**there's no water inside this swimming pool** **  
**  
The early morning sun spills through the windows and falls against the dented hardwood floors of the gallery. There’s only a few people in the gallery right now, mostly art students desperate to finish their papers and old couples meandering through the galleries hand in hand. The sound of boots against the floor cuts through the mostly silent hallways, tap tap tapping their way past the sculptures of veiled women and portraits of men who died too long ago, until his feet find their way towards the photography exhibit. 

There’s a bench in front of the triptych and he makes himself comfortable, stretching out his knotted limbs as he sits down. There’s nobody else here because so many people hold the belief that photography is not true art, so he seizes this opportunity to shut his eyes and lets his mind wander. 

Harry’s always liked photography because he thinks it’s beautiful how one moment in time can be captured with all its flaws and perfections and minor details. Photographs capture both what you want and don’t want others to really see. 

He thinks about nothing important, like what he should eat and what he should wear and when he should pay the bills. These things are trivial to him, and it’s nice to not worry about anything else but them. 

It’s nice like this for a while and then it stops. 

His phone is ringing. A security guard that trickled into the exhibit after him flashes a scowl and Harry returns it with a smile. The guard huffs at him before he waddles into another exhibit. 

“Hi,” Harry says into the phone.

“Harry, my star boy,” the Man says, and it sounds like nails hammering into tin. “Where are you right now?”

“The gallery,” Harry says. 

“You’re looking at the pictures?”  
  
Harry nods, his eyes trailing across the black and white photographs. “Yeah. They turned out nice.”

The Man laughs but it sounds forced and Harry hates it. 

“We sent them to a few fashion houses this morning. A few no name brands want you but we’re holding out for something bigger right now.”

“I don’t need anything big. I’m fine with no name,” Harry mutters. He sees an ant by his foot and he accidentally squishes it. 

“Listen, with a beauty like you we want to sell,” the Man explains, “because you deserve it.”

“I just want to make art,” Harry tells him, as if the Man will listen.

The Man doesn’t listen. He laughs. 

“Why make art when I can make you money?” the Man says. 

“I’ve got enough of that,” Harry tells him. 

“Right, yes, your daddy’s precious money. You think you’re going to have that forever?” 

The way he says it isn’t rude, but Harry can feel the blood beginning to boil in his veins. 

“Anyways, just swing by the office in like an hour and we’ll talk more then,” He dismisses. “Just text me or call when you get here.”

Before either of them can say goodbye, Harry quickly hangs up and stuffs the phone back into his pocket.    
  
He has no intentions of going to see the Man, so Harry turns his phone off and circles around the various exhibits, taking the time to actually look at the paintings and statues and artifacts. Some are beautiful and some are ugly but beauty is all subjective, he reminds himself. And he has to remind himself again as he stares at a portrait of some old white man who probably thought he was important at some point, and he reminds himself again as he nitpicks at another portrait’s eyebrows and unkempt hair and crooked collar. Harry has to remind himself that these people were beautiful to someone, even if that someone is not him. 

_ I wish I was beautiful to myself.  _

Harry’s feet find themselves in the contemporary art section where pretentious looking pseudo-artists and painfully rich-trying-to-look-poor hipsters nod their heads and scratch their beards as if they’ve finally found the meaning of life just by staring at a painting of a small red dot in the middle of a black canvas. 

In the corner of the room there’s lights, but nobody is swarming around them because Harry figures it’s not avant-garde enough for the people here. So, he traverses across the sea of masked fakers and he’s staring at a row of lights. To anybody else it might seem like just a technicolour of fluorescent bulbs, so simple that your dad could do it. But because Harry remembers that everything is subjective, it calls out to him, the slew of red and pink and yellow and green and blue. It’s beautiful and he wants to cry, because to him it is freedom. 

“And to your left, students, we have the contemporary art. We’ll just be passing through to look at a few pieces.”

Harry turns his head and watches a parade of what looks like first year university students being herded through the exhibit, first stopping at some sculpture that looks like a chair, then to a series of letters hung from the ceiling by nooses, then towards a painting of a red line. A few of the kids glance over to where Harry’s standing, at the lights, and a few of them whisper to each other and try to sneak away from the group. But the professor has hawk eyes and urges them to stick together. He tells them that everything he shows them has a purpose, and that he’s left out some things because they don’t serve a purpose to them. 

This depresses Harry. 

To exit the exhibit they have to pass by Harry and the lights, and as they do he says, “And to your left, students, we have a lovely piece here by Dan Flavin that reminds us that art is up to individual interpretation. To me, it represents freedom of the mind and soul, but to your young minds it might represent something different entirely.”

A few of the students snort, obviously unimpressed, and the professor prys a smile onto his lips although his eyes look tired. But a few of the curious students smile genuinely and press their pencils to their paper, which makes Harry smile. 

“Thank you, sir,” the professor says, “but I’ve got all the notes I need to teach them.”

Harry nods at him and watches as he leads them out of the exhibit, a few students straggling behind to take a picture of the lights. One boy stays behind, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Harry watches as the boy leans his head to one side, then the other, then takes a notebook and a pen out of his jacket. He scribbles something then turns to Harry and says, “I just want you to know that you’re beautiful.” Harry smiles, then watches as the boy scurries away, his cheeks bright. 

Beauty is subjective, and Harry disagrees with the boy. 

He makes a slow trek back to the photography section, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans and his boots tapping against the floors. It’s been more than two hours and the Man is probably furious with Harry, but Harry doesn’t check his phone. He’ll get yelled at later, he knows that for certain, but Harry can’t be bothered to care. The Man is all about sales and money and capital, and quite frankly Harry doesn’t understand any of it. Harry just wants to be beautiful and to be surrounded by beautiful people and things, and to make other people feel beautiful, too. 

Back in the photography exhibit, there’s nobody but Harry and a man that looks too old to be a student but too young to be a professor but too serious to be a passerby. There’s speckles of paint on his shoes and a tear in the pocket of his jeans and it’s  _ so _ obvious that he’s an artist that it almost makes Harry want to leave. But then the man turns around, and Harry realizes that he is more than an artist: he is also art. And when their eyes meet for a split second, Harry can feel his whole body become engulfed in heat. 

Harry quickly turns away, tucks a curl behind his ear and clears his throat. He turns to a photograph of a woman smiling on a beach and tries to make it seem as though he’s completely invested in this photograph. He hears the scuffle of shoes against the ground and when he look up, the man is standing on the side of the room across from him, staring at the photographs of Harry. 

There’s a part of Harry that contemplates leaving. He probably seems conceited to this man. The man is probably thinking,  _ Wow, here is a person in a series of photographs hanging around to see who will see him, who will notice him, who will tell him he’s beautiful _ . But there’s a greater part of Harry that wants to stay, wants to keep looking at this man because he is absolutely stunning. 

So Harry spends the rest of his time circling the room and staring at the man staring at the photographs, and he plays this game of wanting to disappear and wanting to stay, but he doesn’t disappear because he will not deny himself the pleasure of being surrounded by this beauty. 

And then at one point, the man turns his head to face Harry, his chin resting on his shoulder and his eyes peeking up from behind thick lashes. Harry’s heart leaps and he wonders, _ is this what dying feels like? _

The man stares at Harry staring at him and Harry's vision becomes rosy around the edges. He feels like the sculptures of the great Greeks, frozen and stoic. Maybe, he thinks, the man will not see him, will not notice the schoolboy blush on his cheeks. Of course he probably does, because he gathers his bags and walks in Harry’s direction. 

He puts his hands in jean jacket pockets and walks right past Harry, smelling like lavender and tobacco. 

And then he’s gone. 

Harry makes no effort to follow the man, although every inch of his brain is screaming at him to do so. But he listens as the door to the exhibit swings open and closed again, the faint patter of sneakers against the gallery tiles growing fainter. Harry turns his head to see where the man has gone, but he isn’t there. He’s disappeared, probably forever. 

_ You’re such an idiot.  _

This is Harry’s cue to leave. He has nothing with him, so he just stuffs his hands in his pockets and nods at the guard who huffed at him earlier, and he gives Harry a look of disapproval. Harry smiles at him and points to the photographs and says, “That’s me, you know.”

The guard huffs again and Harry laughs, pushing the glass doors of the exhibit open and walking into the gallery’s foyer. He steps outside into the busy streets, tasting the cool, sweet air on his tongue. It’s mid-afternoon now, with the January sun slowly setting behind the rows upon rows of high rise buildings and busy streets. He turns his phone on, expecting a bombardment of angry messages, and he’s not the slightest bit surprised when his expectations are met.  
  
He doesn’t answer any of them.


	2. just stop your crying

**just stop your crying** **  
**  


The metro is busy as usual and Harry keeps looking for the beautiful man in every face he sees. None of them can compare to his beauty, though. He’s special and unique and wonderful, and Harry has to stop himself because he doesn’t want to romanticize a man he doesn’t know. But he knows of the man’s existence and that is enough for now. 

When Harry gets to the office he doesn’t even call to let the Man know that he’s here, he just walks in and smiles at the receptionist. 

“He’s mad,” she tells Harry. 

“I know,” Harry says. 

“Good work,” she says, smiling.

Harry winks at her and takes the stairs up to the fourth floor, going up the steps two at a time. When he reaches the top of the landing he can already hear His voice booming through the hall. 

“Jesus Christ, where have you been?” He shouts at Harry when he steps into His office.

Harry shrugs. “I dunno. Around.”

He points to the clock on the edge of His desk. “I called you at ten o’clock and asked you to meet me an hour from then. It’s nearly four o’clock now! What the fuck were you doing all that while?”

Harry shrugs and run his fingers across the spines of the books on the shelves that nobody will ever read. The Man is the biggest faker Harry knows and Harry almost hates him. 

“I was just hanging out,” Harry tells the Man. “I got distracted and made a day trip out of the gallery. Sorry.”

He rubs His face and groans, collapsing into His big leather chair. “Why do you always do this to me?”

Harry sits down in the seat across from him and waits until his fit is over. For five minutes the Man sits and stares at the ceiling, his lips moving in some sort of prayer, his eyes closed. Harry sighs and taps his foot impatiently.

“Do you not understand that we are a business?” the Man says finally. 

“I do understand,” Harry tells him, “but you need to make your client happy and you’re not doing that right now, are you?”

The Man narrows his eyes at Harry. “Listen, I am trying my very best, but you make it impossible. You’re spoiled and do whatever you want and when I try to discipline you, you just get your parents to bail you out!”

Harry pouts. “That was one time,” he mumbles. 

“It’s all the same, Harry,” the Man says, waving his hand. 

Silence engulfs them. Harry stares at his hands balled up into fists on his lap. He watches as the Man pulls a cigarette out from his desk drawer and lights it, blowing pillars of smoke in Harry’s direction. Harry doesn’t sputter or blow it away. 

“Do you understand who you are?” the Man asks Harry. 

“I’m Harry Styles,” Harry says.

The Man nods. “Yes, you’re  _ the _ Harry Styles. You’re one of the most up and coming models the world is waiting for. You’re the poster child for every young model out there.”

Harry turns his head to stare at the pouting faces of thin, frail bodies, with their painted faces and their costumed limbs hanging on the Man’s wall. They’re beautiful, far more beautiful than Harry could ever dream of being. 

_ They’re not real. That’s not real. _

“Young people these days don’t want a story like mine,” Harry lets the Man know. “You don’t just need to be interested in art or fashion in order to be a model now.”

The Man laughs at Harry. “Oh, so you know what the modelling world looks like now, do you?”

Harry leans over and grabs the cigarette out of the Man’s hand. He looks like he’s about to kill Harry, and he opens his mouth to sputter something, but Harry blows smoke right down his throat and he coughs. 

“Youth these days are proud of themselves,” Harry tells the Man, “ and they own their beauty, regardless of what they look like. Anybody and everybody can be a model. It’s really interesting, the way these kids--”

“Sit  _ down _ ,” the Man hisses, snatching his cigarette back. He puts it out in the ashtray beside a small photograph of his family, and all Harry can think about is how he must treat his poor spouse and children. 

There’s fire in the Man’s eyes and Harry thinks this is it, he’s not going to have a job anymore, but instead the Man says, “Listen to me, Harry. You’re one of the most unique and interesting people that this industry has seen in awhile. You’ve got a pretty face and a great backstory. You’re so easy to sell but you have to let us do our jobs, do you understand? Mummy and Daddy can’t bail you out this one, you hear?”

Harry hears loud and clear.


	3. tell me something i don't already know

**tell me something i don't already know**

  
Home is a short walk from the office and Harry makes sure to go extra slow. He doesn’t look up at the newsstand as he passes by, perfectly aware of the girl with dyed orange hair staring at him as she holds him between her fingers and folds him into her purse. Harry keeps his eyes down and his hands balled and his ears closed. 

This is how it’s been for a while. 

His phone keeps ringing in his pocket but he doesn’t want to look at it because he knows who it is. So he lets it ring and he lets people stare at him and he can’t even be bothered to stare back. 

Inside the flat it smells like warm curry and rice, and he quickly kicks off his boots and hangs up his coat and heads into the kitchen. Gemma is sitting at the table, laptop open and bowl of food steaming in front of her. She doesn’t look up when she points to the counter, where another bowl is waiting for him. 

“Thanks,” he says, grabbing it and sitting in the chair beside her. 

“No problem,” she says, tapping away at her keyboard. “How was your day?”

He stabs a piece of chicken and stares at it on his fork. “Was fine.”

Her eyes flicker up to his, her mouth turned in an unconvinced frown. He shrugs. 

“You’ve got a bunch of missed calls on the answering machine,” she tells him, her voice teetering on the edges of surprise and frustration that he insists they still have an answering machine. She pauses and there is nothing but the sounds from the outside leaking in and the smell of curry and the feeling of heaviness caving on his shoulders. Then, her voice gets soft and she says, “You should just talk to him.”

He sighs. “I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t like talking to him.”

She closes her laptop and pushes it forward on the table. She’s upset now, he can feel it radiating off her. He refuses to look at her so he stirs the contents of his bowl around and around.

“He’s your dad, Harry. He just wants to give you advice or something,” she says.

“I don’t want any advice,” he tells her. 

She sighs and shakes her head. She grabs her laptop and opens it back up, beginning to tap tap tap away at the keys again. He shovels a spoonful of the curry and rice into his mouth before standing up, making sure to scrape the chair across the floor so that it makes a terrible noise. He puts his food in the fridge and walks back to Gemma, kissing the top of her head and squeezing her shoulder. 

“Thanks for the food, Gem,” he says. 

She softens and her fingers stop for a moment but she doesn’t look up.


	4. there's no antidote

**there's no antidote** **  
**  


At night he barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of him. 

They’re sitting in a field with soft grass growing between their toes and warm sunlight cradling them in its arms. They are a tangle of limbs moving and growing together, stretching their fingertips so that they can touch the edge of the great blue sky. You smile and it lights up the entire world and he thinks to himself that if he were to die right now, he would be fine. 

But then he wakes up and he remembers that they are not together and they are not a tangle of limbs and they are not touching the edges of the sky. Instead, he is alone in a bed that’s too big and his sheets are tangled together at the edge of mattress. The kettle is whistling and Gemma is talking loudly on the phone and of course it’s raining outside, big droplets smacking against the concrete of this city. 

And this is his life right now. It is not sleeping and waking up to noise and answering to the calls of people who don’t even care. Yet he still forces a smile onto his lips and he tells these people that he is fine.


	5. tell me something

**tell me something**

 

Tuesdays are Harry’s days off and by some inexplicable force, he’s back at the gallery. 

There’s barely anyone in here, so he takes his time to poke his head through the exhibits without a fear of being rushed. He breezes by renaissance art and passes quickly through the impressionists, and before he realizes it, he’s made his way to the photography exhibit. 

Perhaps he’s there, waiting for him, Harry thinks to myself. Perhaps he’s been here the entire time. And perhaps Harry’s just hanging on to the thin thread of a dream that he’s developed in the back of my head about him. But he pauses and holds his breath and his heart skips as he peers in through the glass door to see any sign of him.   


And he’s there again. Sitting on the bench in front of the triptych, sketchbook open, not even looking at the photographs, just doodling. Even from outside the exhibit Harry can see that his knuckles are white from gripping his pen so tightly, swinging it in circles across the paper. Harry’s hand is pressed against the handle of the exhibit door and his heart is drumming loudly in my chest. He contemplates leaving, but suddenly the door swings open open.

The man looks up and his eyes meet with Harry’s. They are so blue like sea. A smile spreads across the man’s face and he turns back to his sketchbook. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. So Harry figures this is okay. The man doesn’t think he’s weird. He exhales, and he can hear the faint whispers of a chuckle. 

And so it goes like this.

Harry goes to the gallery as soon as he wakes up and there the man is, sitting on the bench in front of the photographs of Harry, doodling. Sometimes Harry doesn’t leave leave until the man does, and sometimes the man doesn’t leave until Harry does, and this happens for weeks. 

But this Tuesday, Harry is late. Today his alarm didn’t go off and today his shower was cold and today the old woman across the hall decided she wanted to talk about politics with him. He can’t run through the streets because there’s so many people and the metro is so packed that he can barely move. And when he gets to the gallery he expects the man to be there, he expects the man to be angry and sad and disappointed with him.

But he’s not even there.

Harry looks around frantically, trying to spot the man in the faces of the few people floating around in the exhibit. The guard who huffed at me the first day Harry saw the man is staring at him, a small smile on his face and his arms folded across his chest. 

“He’s not here,” the guard says. “Hasn’t been here all morning.”

Harry’s heart sinks to his stomach. This is the end, he thinks to himself. There is no point. The man is gone, probably forever, and Harry let him slip away. 

And then.

The door of the exhibit swings open and there he is. His eyes scan the small crowd before landing on Harry, and he can feel the fire rekindle across his body.   


The man walks over to where Harry is standing, a smile on his face, and Harry is trying to remember how to speak. Harry opens his mouth but nothing but empty space comes out. His cheeks flush and the man chuckles, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.

So simple yet so mesmerizing. 

“Are you the man from the photographs?” the man asks. His voice is soft velvet and sweet oranges in the summer, smooth and familiar in Harry’s ears.

“Yes,” Harry manages to say with a nod. His heart is beating so loudly he can barely hear the man speak, and yet he manages to hang onto every word.

“They’ve really nice,” the man says.

“Thank you,” Harry says back. 

“Aren’t you in some fashion magazines?”

Harry nods again. “Sometimes.”

The man smiles and it’s the sweetest thing. 

“I never thought I’d see a real piece of art in the flesh,” the man says. Harry almost laughs and says that he’s mistaken because Harry’s the furthest thing from art. 

The man extends his hand and Harry takes it in his. It’s soft and warm and a little bit sweaty, but it feels nice.

“My name is Louis,” the man says.

“I’m Harry,” Harry says back.

Harry can see his name rolling around Louis’ mind for a moment, but he can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t believe him or because he’s trying to memorize him. Regardless, Harry does the same.

“Are you a photographer?” Harry asks. 

“I do paintings, mostly,” Louis tells him. 

“But you sit in the photography exhibit every week.”

“Because I always hope you’ll be here.”

The words startle Harry. They roll off Louis’ tongue with such ease, such poise, and it takes everything in Harry’s power not to grab Louis by the face and kiss him on the mouth. But he doesn’t know Louis, and Louis doesn’t know him, so that wouldn’t be appropriate. So Harry does the next best thing.

“Could I grab your number?” Harry asks. 

Louis shifts his weight from one foot onto the other as he slips his hand into his pocket. For a moment Harry fears that he’s going to leave, but instead he takes out a pocket notebook and a pen. He opens it and quickly scrawls something down, then rips the paper and hands it to Harry. The numbers are tumbling and twisting over each other, but Harry smiles as though he can read it.


	6. i've been praying i never did before

**i've been praying, i never did before  
**

He calls Harry at midnight exactly. 

With sleep still in his eyes and his throat thick, all Harry is able to say into the phone is a hoarse, “H-Hello?”

Then there’s the faintest sound of a giggle, bubbly and bright despite the time. For a moment, Harry forgets about all his troubles. There is only this voice and this bright laugh. 

“It’s Louis,” the voice says. His words comes out silky, as if effortlessly chosen. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no. You didn’t wake me,” Harry says, pushing himself upright against his headboard. His finger twirls around a piece of string dangling from his comforter. He tries to picture Louis sitting in his own bed, the soft glow of a lamp lighting up one side of his face. 

“Cool,” Louis says. He takes a deep breath and exhales and it crackles through Harry’s speaker. “I couldn’t really sleep, so I hope you don’t mind that I called you.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t mind at all.”

A silence falls over them. It’s not particularly awkward, but it’s enough to make Harry shift. He’s suddenly aware of everything around him: the pile of dirty laundry he’s been meaning to do for a week, the stacks of lined paper and photo paper and tracing paper scattered across his desk, the photographs on the shelf turned the other way or laid flat completely. His skin is crawling, he feels vulnerable, embarrassed that Louis is even talking to him with his life in shambles like this. 

“So,” Louis finally says, “you’re  _ the _ Harry Styles, then?”

The corners of Harry’s mouth pull upward. “Yeah, guilty.”

Louis chuckles. “You’ve got a pretty impressive resume under your belt.”

“Do you mean to tell me you did a Google search of me?”

“I had to brush up on my knowledge,” Louis explains defensively. “I can’t have myself looking like a fool.”

Harry laughs in a way that he hasn’t been able to in a long time. It comes unexpectedly, slipping up his throat and past his lips without him thinking. Caught off guard and afraid to wake up Gemma, he clamps his hand over his mouth. 

He finds himself filled with a new type of happiness that he’s never felt before. It’s different from the hazy-eyed happiness of childhood, different from the little burst of ecstasy when you get high. He feels this happiness in the pit of his stomach, a small bead of light that extends across his body, through his fingertips and his toes and his head. 

And this is just the beginning.

“Can I ask you a question?” Harry whispers. 

“Of course.”

And there’s so many questions Harry wants to ask:  _ Were you always this beautiful? What’s your favourite art work? Who’s your favourite artist?  _ But he goes for the most obvious one. 

“Why were you always waiting for me in the gallery?”

There’s a sigh from Louis’ end. Harry’s heart sinks. But Louis’ voice is warm and a little shy and so soothing when he says, “If I tell you this, you have to promise not to think I’m creepy.”

“I promise I won’t think you’re creepy.”

“Okay.” Louis takes a deep breath, exhaling even deeper. “Okay. So, I was kind of doing  sketches of you.”

Harry’s stomach leaps. “You were drawing me?”

“I wasn’t trying to be creepy, I swear.”

“No,” Harry chuckles, “I don’t think it’s creepy. Really. It’s nice.”

There’s silence again. But this time, instead of being awkward, it’s warm, as though they’re sitting next to each other rather than being on opposite sides of the city. It’s comfortable, so Harry sinks back down to rest his head on his pillow and stare up at the ceiling. 

“You’re a very beautiful person,” Louis says softly. Harry shuts his eyes, allows the words to caress his cheek. 

“So are you,” he says back. 

“Are you just a model?” Louis asks. 

“No,” Harry says, peering over at his desk to the box of camera parts that’s been left untouched for weeks, “I also take photographs.”

“You should photograph me sometime,” Louis says, and there’s an edge of overconfidence in his voice that makes Harry laugh. 

“I should. And you should let me see your sketches.”

“How about tomorrow at seven o’clock? You can come over to my place and I’ll cook you something and we can do artsy things like a bunch of pretentious assholes.”

Harry blinks. He takes a moment to process what’s been said, a smile spreading across his lips. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that would work. I’d like that.”

“Cool,” Louis says. “I’ll text you my address, yeah?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“Alright. It’s a date then,” Louis says.  
  
“It’s a date,” Harry whispers.


	7. you don't know nothing, just pretend you do

** you don't know nothing, just pretend you do  
**

Millions of hands are touching him, running their cakey fingers across his bare chest and through his hair and over his legs. He is as still as the mannequin they want him to be, only moving when he’s told to turn his head this way or bend his arm that way or shut his eyes. They coo at how well behaved he is, how handsome he is, how nicely the clothes drape across his frame. He doesn’t respond. He is a mannequin.

The Man is standing off to the side talking some broody woman. Both of them move their arms in grand gesture whenever they speak, and it’s for Harry to tell whether or not they’re actually speaking or just moving their bodies.

A loud voice cuts through the echo of voices in the studio and everybody turns their heads. It’s a tall man with bright red hair and honeyed skin, and judging by the way everybody makes way for him when he walks, Harry immediately recognizes him as the photographer for today. As he makes his way through the crowd, Harry’s eyes travel from his head to his toes, watching as the fabric of his clothes hugs his curves in all the right ways.

 _You could be that if you tried_.

“So this is the famous Harry Styles,” the photographer says, flashing Harry a row of bright white teeth. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Harry returns a small grin. “Thank you. Likewise.”

The photographer’s eyes widen and he lets out a hearty laugh. “Likewise, he says. How polite.”

Harry smiles.

The photographer’s eyes rake across Harry’s body. Like always, Harry’s body goes tense and he swallows the lump in his throat. He tries to be a mannequin again, but this man’s gaze is too demanding.

“Good,” the photographer says, nodding slightly. “Yeah, I like this. I can work with this.”

Harry glances quickly at the Man, who gives him the fakest of encouraging smiles before turning to flirt with some tiny woman.

The shoot goes on for four long hours. In that time, Harry is stripped and posed and touched and prodded. He is examined, passes inspection, stripped again, bent into position. The photographer says nothing, just smiles and nods every so often. The lights are blinding and warm against Harry’s skin.

When it’s all finished, the photographer gives him a big smile and hugs him.

“Do you want to see the photos?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head.

He changes back into his clothes before taking the time to thank everyone. He sees the Man roll his eyes and check his watch, which makes Harry go slower. Once he’s done, he tells the Man he’ll give him a call later, and he slips out of the studio and into the cool early evening air.

There’s three hours until he’s supposed to go to Louis’ apartment, so he takes the metro back home. It’s packed with people returning home for the evening, so Harry pulls his hood up, trying to be as invisible as possible. A few people glance at him, their eyes lingering on his face as they try to think about where they’ve seen him before. He just gives them the quickest flash of a smile before ducking his head.

In his pocket, his phone keeps buzzing, and the old woman sitting across from where he stands keeps giving him a disapproving frown. He sighs and slips it out of his pocket. There’s two missed calls from the Man and two from Gemma. He dials her number, pressing the phone against his ear.

“Hi,” her voice is crackly and loud, “how was your shoot?”

“It’s was good,” he says. The metro bumps and he grips the pole as tightly as possible until he can see the whites of his knuckles.

“Who was it for?” she asks. “Anyone big?”

“Nobody you would know,” he teases.

“Ha-ha, mister fashionista. When are you going to be home?”

He glances up at the map. “I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay, nice. I’m going to be home late because of this huge story, but there’s a pizza in the freezer or leftover curry.”

Harry chews his bottom lip. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of telling her that he has a date makes his heart beat a million times faster and his throat close up.

“Um, I’m actually going to be out tonight,” he says slowly. The train stops and people jostle him around on their scramble out.

“Alright,” she says. “You don’t have work tomorrow?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t know what time I’ll be home.”

“Where are you going?”

He takes a deep breath. “I have a date.”

She goes silent for a minute and Harry can hear her fingers stop tapping against her keyboard. “A date? With who?”

“Um,” Harry says, shifting so that he has more space to get off the train, “a guy I saw from the art gallery.”

The old woman shoots him a glance that Harry will think about for the rest of his life.

“Just some random guy?” Gemma asks. “What’s his name?”

“He’s not really that random,” Harry explains, “and his name is Louis. He’s an artist. He’s nice.”

“Be careful,” Gemma warns.

He rolls his eyes. “I know, Gem. It’s okay.”

“Alright. Well, give me a call if you need a ride home or anything, yeah? I’ll come pick you up.”

“I’ll be fine Gem,” Harry chuckles. He steps off the train and follows the flood of people out of the station. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Okay. Seriously, though, be careful. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

When he hangs up, he glances over his shoulder and sees that the old woman is walking behind him. He takes a deep breath and shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

He takes his time showering, letting the warm water wash over his aching limbs. All he can think about is Louis. Will he like him? Will he think he’s weird? The questions keep rolling around Harry’s head, even as he lets his hair dry and as he gets dressed and as he walks towards Louis’ flat.

When he finds himself on Louis’ front porch, Harry thinks about leaving. He could just disappear from Louis’ life without a trace. He could stop going to the art gallery. But then he’s knocking on the door and his breathing is so loud that he can’t hear himself.

The doorknob turns. Louis opens it, and he leans against the doorframe, and Harry’s heart melts into a golden pool at his feet.

“Hi,” Louis says. The corners of his mouth pull to reveal two rows of white teeth and pink gums. His eyes flit up and down Harry’s torso, and Harry can feel his cheeks flush.

“Hi,” he says back.

“Come in.” Louis moves aside and Harry steps into the flat. The smell of cheese wafts through the apartment and Harry’s stomach grumbles.

“Your flat is nice,” Harry says. Louis takes his coat and hangs it up and Harry kicks off his boots, bending down to carefully place them beside each other. When he stands up straight, Louis is smiling at him, and he can feel his cheeks grow warmer.

“You look really good,” Louis says, leading him into the living room. “But you always look good.”

“Thanks,” Harry chuckles. “You too.”

His heart is so loud in his ears and so strong against his chest. When he goes to sit down beside Louis on the couch, he almost stumbles. He presses his fingers against his thighs to keep them from shaking so much. Louis notices this, and he tentatively reaches for Harry’s hand.

“You good?” Louis asks softly. He holds Harry’s hand in his so delicately, as though it were a flower ready to snap into a million little pieces. Harry’s breath hitches in his throat and he has to try and keep his head from spinning.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He looks up through his lashes at Louis and he looks at how the corners of his eyes are so soft and his mouth is so soft and everything about him is so soft. “I’m good.”

Louis grins and his hands slip away from Harry’s and Harry thinks, _No, come back._ But he relaxes a bit more into Louis’ worn out blue couch, watching as Louis tucks his feet up beneath his bum. He tries and fails to hold back a grin because he can’t believe he’s here in the gallery boy’s house. They’re on a date. Harry can’t believe it.

“What are you grinning about?” Louis asks playfully, propping his elbow on the back of the couch and resting his head in his palm.

Harry shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re just cute, that’s all.”

Louis laughs and it sounds like sunshine and butterflies flying in summer.

“So,” Louis says, “what’s it like being a model?”

That question always comes up.

“It’s okay,” Harry says slowly. “It’s not as glamorous as everybody thinks.”

Louis nods. “I figured. No offence.”

“It’s okay.”

“How long have you been a model?” Louis asks. He inches closer and Harry is very aware of Louis’ knee against his hand.

“A few years,” Harry tells Louis. “I was signed with my manager last year though.”

“Right,” Louis nods. He nudges his knee against Harry’s hand, intentionally or not, but Harry places his palm on top of it. His leg is warm beneath his joggers.

“How long have you been painting?” Harry asks. He lets his fingers relax and curl around the curve of Louis’ leg.

“Since my first year of uni,” Louis says, and he points at a few canvases on the wall. “I’m kind of shit at it though.”

Harry glances at the pieces that he’s talking about. The first one he sees is very obviously a girl with long brown hair holding an orange. It’s bright and loud. The second one is more abstract, a mess of browns and blacks and reds. Harry can’t tell what it is in the slightest, but somehow it still makes him feel a bit at ease.

“They’re nice,” Harry tells him, “I really mean it.”

“Thanks,” Louis says.

They stare at each other for a moment, butterflies forming in the pit of Harry’s belly. He feels like he should bury his face in his hair, slip away until Louis can’t find him. But then Louis’ hand is just barely cupping Harry’s cheek and Harry can feel his mind start swimming again, drowning is everything that is Louis.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, “but could I kiss you?”

Harry swallows the lump in his throat and tries to say something, but nothing comes out so he just nods instead.

It seems to happen so slowly, the way that Louis cups Harry’s face and leans in and presses his lips against Harry’s. They’re warm and taste like chocolate, and it feels so nice that Harry stops breathing. He thinks back to the first day in the gallery, with the sun dripping through the windows and lighting up Louis’ face. This kiss feels like that, familiar and warm.

When they pull away, they stare at each other again. Louis smiles and Harry can’t help but giggle and Louis kisses him again quickly. He stands up, grabbing Harry’s fingertips and leads him to the kitchen.

“I hope you like macaroni,” Louis says, reaching for an oven glove, “because that’s all I know how to cook.”

“I suppose I’ll have to teach you,” Harry teases. “It smells nice.”

Louis talks under his breath as he opens the oven, carefully grabbing the macaroni dish and placing it on the counter. The warm cheese oozes, bright and bubbly. It smells so good and looks so decadent that Harry forgets that it isn’t safe.

Harry smiles as Louis hands him a plate, watching as he slices two pieces of the macaroni, spooning one of them onto Harry’s plate and the other on his own. Harry thanks him and pokes it a bit with his fork.

 _You shouldn’t_.

He does anyway.

“Wow,” Harry says, his eyes widening, “it’s quite nice.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Louis says, pouring Harry a glass of wine.

They eat and sip their glasses of wine, then another, and another. He’s only a little bit tipsy, but Harry finds himself laughing like he’s never laughed before. It pours out of his mouth and his nose and his ears, spilling into Louis’ lap. It feels so nice to be able to just be loose like this, to not have to worry about everything.

As the night unfolds, Harry realizes that he has never felt this way about anybody before. Nobody has ever given him these butterflies, or this head rush, or these tingly fingers. But Louis is so beautiful, with his messy hair and his bright blue eyes that crinkle when he smiles, and the softness of his voice.

The night continues on and Harry loses track of time but he doesn’t care. Maybe they’re both a little more than tipsy, or maybe it’s because they’re both high off their excitement.

“I like you,” Louis tells Harry.

“I like you too,” Harry says.

“I mean it,” Louis says. “I have never felt this way about anybody before, I mean it.”

“I know,” Harry tells him, “me too.”

“I’m going to kiss you again,” Louis says. “Is that okay?”

And Harry tells him that kissing is okay. And more than kissing is okay, too, if he wants. And Louis does want it, so they slip off to Louis’ room and he puts on a record that Harry doesn’t recognize and Harry is suddenly lying naked in his bed. And it feels right. And Harry lets Louis kiss me him places that nobody has ever kissed him, across his chest and his hips and down his legs. And Louis keeps asking Harry if he’s okay, if it feels okay, and Harry keeps telling him yes, yes, yes it feels wonderful.

“I really like you,” Louis says.

Harry presses his lips against Louis’ and says, “I really like you too.”  
  



	8. just two hearts in one home

**just two hearts in one home**

 

When Harry wakes up at two o’clock in the morning, he expects there to be an empty place in his own bed where he wishes Louis could be. Yet when he wakes up, he’s lying next to Louis in a tangle of damp blankets and worn out limbs and stardust in their eyes. And Louis is looking right at him, his eyelids heavy.

“You okay?” Harry whispers groggily.

Louis nods, taking Harry’s hand and weaving his fingers with Harry’s. Harry’s breathing is heavier, his eyes watch as Louis stares at their hands locked together, tracing a finger along their skin. Louis smiles faintly, pressing his lips against the seam where their fingers lock together. His touch is gold weaving into Harry’s skin, tingly and warm and bright. Harry shuts his eyes, letting Louis drag the soft tips of his fingers up and down his arm, circling the bend of Harry’s elbow, then across the bare dips of his collarbone and the bump of his throat. 

“Harry,” Louis says. 

“Yes?” Harry says back. 

“Please don’t think I’m just using you.” Louis look up at him through his thick fan of lashes, his eyes a storm of desperation. “Please don’t think that.”

And Harry wasn’t thinking that until now. 

“I don’t think that,” Harry tells him. 

Louis bends his arm and props his head up in one swift motion that seems impossible. But then again, everything about Louis seems impossible. He’s too good to be true. 

“Look at me,” Louis says, so Harry looks at him. He smiles at Harry, but it isn’t warm or soft. This smile is cold and hard, and Harry wonders, who hurt him? 

“I’m looking at you,” Harry affirms, and the gold returns to Louis’ face. He kisses Harry in a way that’s bubbly, and Harry can’t help but giggle. So Louis kisses him again, holding his face so gingerly that he feels like a flower. 

“I’m not using you,” Louis tells Harry again, and he believes him. 

“I didn’t think you were.”

“You’re one of the most genuine people I’ve ever met,” Louis tells him, “and I admire that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very beautiful. And not just in the way that you’re a model. You’re beautiful outside, but you’re also beautiful inside. I feel like you should know that.”

There are no words to describe how Harry feels. There aren’t enough hugs or kisses, not enough ‘thank you’s’ or ‘i love yous’ to describe the flood of emotion that fills every part of him. Because for once in what seems like forever, Harry feels a spark of something that blew out a long time ago.

And as Louis gives him another kiss before pressing his body against Harry, he feels a glimmer of something that feels like hope. 


	9. i always think about you and how we don't speak enough

**i always think about you and how we don’t speak enough**

 

When Harry wakes up, there’s an empty space where he thinks Louis should be, and for a moment he fears that he’s in his own room. But then the sound of humming and the smell of eggs hits him and the sun shines in his eyes and he sees bright yellow walls and even brighter art, and he knows that he’s okay. 

The memories from last night come flooding back to him, softly at first and then a wave crashing over him. Harry glances at the clothes strewn across the floor, recognizing the frayed bottoms of his black jeans, and his stomach turns. Not in a bad way, but in a way that confirms all his emotions from the past few weeks. Louis was not a figment of his imagination; he is real and here Harry is, in Louis’ bed, his fingers brushing against the slight dip in the mattress from where Louis’ body lay. It’s still warm and it all smells like him. 

Slowly, Harry makes his way out of bed and even more slowly he makes my way out of Louis’ room. He examines everything on Louis’ desk - a book on Matisse and another on Van Gogh, some broken paint brushes, and empty paint pots - and poke at the knick knacks on your shelves - a cracked mug with a picture of a goat in a cowboy hat, the broken lens of a camera - and all of it helps Harry sew this image of what makes Louis the way Louis is. And as Harry makes his way down the sunlit hallway to the kitchen, he sees Louis perched over the stove with a spatula in his hand and he’s wearing this dorky apron and all Harry can think is that he’s loving the way Louis is.

Harry’s footsteps are loud as he tries to creep up behind Louis, so he easily turns around, flashing Harry a smile that makes his cheeks turn rosy.

“Hey sleeping beauty,” Louis sing, nudging Harry with his elbow. “Do you like eggs? I made scrambled and sunny side up, or I can scrap that and make something totally new.”

Butter bubbles around the flying saucer of an egg that crackles in the frying pan. It’s loud, making itself known to all. He takes a deep breath, but Harry smiles. 

“Yeah, I like eggs. Thanks.”

“Cool. Um, I can make some tea or coffee if you’d like,” you say, turning the stove off and making a big scene of opening the fridge. Your head turns over your shoulder and you say, “I’ve also got milk and orange juice, if you’re into that.”

“Tea is nice,” Harry says, reaching for the kettle. Louis tries to step in and take it from Harry, but Harry grins and hold it up high above his head. “I can fill it. Would you like some?”

There’s the hint of a smile tugging at Louis’ lips but he tries so hard to cover it up. “No need to put it all the way up there. I’m short, but I’m not that short.”

A laugh escapes Harry’s lips. “O-kay, if you say so.”

That’s when Louis kiss him. It’s not hard or forceful, but it still takes the breath from Harry’s lungs. Harry is aware of absolutely everything: the way he’s leaning against the counter, Louis’ warm hands cupping his cheek, the softness of Louis’ sweater brushing against his arm. It is a warm and hazy kiss, the kind that tucks you back to sleep when you wake up on a bright morning. And just as soon as it happened, it’s over. There’s a scarlet tint to Louis’ cheeks and Harry’s sure that his face is the same. 

Louis grins at him, then turns back to the kettle. “Better fill it up for two then.”

When everything is set on the table, Louis put on an old record full of sad guitars and reverb. He pulls Harry’s chair out for him and Harry can’t help but roll his eyes, which Louis laughs at before sitting down. 

“Bon appétit,” Louis says before shoving a forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth. 

Throughout breakfast, this is what Harry notices: Louis is the kind of person who prefers scrambled eggs to any other type of egg; Louis eats just the yolk of a sunny side up egg, and only with a piece of white toast; Louis likes his tea with two sugars and no milk, but prefers his coffee the opposite; the orange juice isn’t Louis’, it’s your roommate’s, whom he’s not mentioned but Harry can tell because there are things that don’t belong to Louis, like the prayer beads on the coffee table. Louis doesn’t tell him any of this, but Harry knows it. And he wonders if Louis notices that he takes his tea black, that he doesn’t eat the toast on my plate, that he only eats the whites of my sunny side up egg and he doesn’t dare touch the scrambled, that his knuckles aren’t bruised because he fights people but because they just started to always look that way. 

Another thing Harry notices is that Louis is always smiling. Even when he chews his food and tells Harry a ridiculous story about how his roommate locked him out in the pouring rain, Louis is still smiling. Because of that, Harry catches himself smiling, and although he’s smiled legitimately and illegitimately at people, this type of smiling is more profound. It is real in ways that he has not known before. 

When Louis finishes his story, Harry asks, “Where is your roommate anyways?”

Louis mops the last of his egg yolk with the corner of his toast. “He’s back home visiting his folks.”

“And where is back home?”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. It’s cold and defensive, and Harry knows he’s messed something up. 

“He’s from Bradford,” Louis tells him. 

Harry nods his head. “I’ve heard it’s nice.”

“I’ve never been,” Louis says. 

“Did I say something wrong?”

For a moment, Louis looks hurt. Not because Harry’s hurt him, but because he’s disappointed himself. He thinks that he’s messed whatever this is up. Then, there’s that flash of coldness again, but he takes a deep breath and the warm boy is back. 

He stands up from his chair and walks to where Harry’s sitting, grabbing his hands and urging Harry up. He leads him to the sofa and they sit down, Harry’s heart beating against his chest like a hammer. They sit in silence for a moment, Louis dragging his fingers across the lines of Harry’s palm. Louis’ eyebrows are knit together and Harry wonders what’s going on in that brain of his. 

“I really like you, Harry.”

“I really like you, too.”

Harry watches as Louis takes a deep breath. His eyes are heavy and he’s not smiling anymore, and without thinking Harry brushes his thumb across the top of Louis’ cheek. He smiles now, leaning into Harry’s touch, and his eyelashes are like a butterfly’s wings.

“Look,” Louis says slowly, “I’ve been…hurt a lot. And I’m not saying that you’re going to hurt me, but there have been people that have hurt me and hurt people I care about. And I’m telling you this because you’re one of the few people that I feel I have a true connection.”

Louis pauses, watching as the record fades into silence. He goes to change it, but Harry pulls him back down. 

Louis chuckles and runs his hand through his hair. “I know that it’s strange telling you this because I’ve only properly known you for like a day, but I feel like I’ve known you so much longer and I just need to know right now that this isn’t going to end up with me never hearing from you again.”

The words hit Harry and they roll and sit in the space of his brain. What he really wants to tell Louis is that he’s not going anywhere because he’s been hurt before, too. That he’s still hurting. But nothing Harry thinks he can say feels adequate so he just press his lips into Louis’ and hopes and prays that it’s enough. 

And suddenly Louis becomes Harry’s only focus. At least for today. He has no shoot, no meetings, no appointments, so he spends the afternoon with Louis. They walk to this bakery that Harry used to work at, but Harry doesn’t tell Louis that, and he nods his head and laughs as Louis goes on about these things that he already knows. When they walk in, a part of Harry is disappointed because they’ve rotated the entire staff, and he wonders where all his old friends are now. Louis buys a twelve pack of tarts and Harry picks at one as he watches Louis munch and talk about whatever comes to his mind. 

It’s nice to just be without having obligations. The only thing that Harry needs to worry about right now is the way Louis laughs and the way Louis holds a cigarette and the way Louis’ hand fits right into place with his. Harry knows that when he goes home all his worries will come flooding back, but that’s for later. 

They consider going to the gallery, but Harry grabs Louis’ hand and pulls him along past the rows and rows of shops and bakeries and past the lovers and the fighters and people with desolate eyes until they reach a small pond.

There’s only two little ducks swimming around, quacking and flailing their wings when the other floats too closely. By the edge of the pond there’s two kids sprinkling fistfuls of breadcrumbs into the water, and Harry smiles. 

He remembers the summers spent in dungarees and yellow caps and red galoshes even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He remembers holding a big, meaty hand that he thought could pull the world back together if they tried hard enough. He remembers a bag of cracker crumbs and bits of his Nan’s month old loaves that she’d dry out just for this. He remembers yellow ducklings swimming in circles as they peeped and showed off their food gathering skills. And he remembers afterwards, the sticky feeling of vanilla ice cream dripping down my chin as he sat in the too brightly lit parlour. 

These are things Harry thinks of when he looks at this pond, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t come. 

Louis senses this, because he squeezes Harry’s hand and suggests they go get some ice cream or coffee, his treat. Harry can feel himself nod his head and smile, but he doesn’t actually Feel anything.


	10. we're both stubborn i know

**we're both stubborn i know**

 

The office is a long walk from Harry’s house and inside it’s dark and smells too strongly of disinfectant. The chair he sits in swallows him up, making him feel as though he’s five years old again. He can feel the cold waves of panic brewing in the pit of his belly, so he clutches onto the edge of the seat. 

The doctor sits with his legs crossed one over the other, a writing pad resting in his lap. His fingers tap tap tap against it and he has this smirk on his face as though he’s peeling Harry apart.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks him finally. 

Harry stares down at the gnawed edges of his fingernails and says, “I’m fine.”

The doctor nods. He uncrosses his legs and reaches into a black bowl that sits on the side table. Harry watches as he pulls out two cellophane wrapped mints, stretching them out towards Harry. 

“Would you like one?” the doctor asks.

“No, thank you,” Harry declines. 

The doctor drops one of them back into the bowl and slowly unwraps the other, his fingers barely moving to peel open either side of the wrapper. He stares right at Harry as he places it on his tongue. 

“I saw your photos in that fashion magazine,” the doctor says. “They’re quite nice.”

“Thanks.”

“I heard that you’ve also got some hanging in the gallery as well. Congratulations.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Um,” Harry says, shifting in his seat, “do you know how long this will take today?”

The doctor sighs and shrugs. “That depends on what you’re willing to tell me.”

Harry’s smile is wobbly as he says, “I don’t really think there’s anything to talk about. I’m fine.”

The doctor fingers through the pages in his notepad. “Your sister says that your father called sometime this week and you never called him back.”

Harry exhales deeply through his nose. The doctor looks at him with his eyebrows raised, expecting an answer that Harry doesn’t want to give. But Harry nods and purses his lips, his shoulders rising up and down. 

“Yeah, he called. I didn’t feel like talking to him, so I didn’t talk to him. It’s as simple as that,” Harry says bluntly. 

“And why is that, Harry?”

He runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a frustrated chuckle. “God, I don’t know. I just don’t like him. Can I go?”

The doctor shakes his head. 

Harry shuts his eyes, pictures himself sitting in the gallery with the sun covering his back in warm yellow light. Pictures Louis waiting for him, a smile on his face. 

“Have you talked to your mum recently, Harry?” the doctor asks. 

Harry’s eyes open slowly. “Yes. I spoke with her the other day.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I dunno. Nothing really.”

“Harry,” the doctor says, taking his glasses off and leaning forward in his chair, “these sessions only go by based on whatever information you give me. We need to work together.”

“I don’t even need to be here,” Harry mumbles. “S’nothing wrong with me.”

“Your parents are concerned.”

“Concerned about  _ what _ ? They don’t even  _ see _ me. What could they possibly  _ know _ about me to be concerned about?”

“Does it make you upset that they don’t speak to you?”

“Well, of course!”

Harry hasn’t shouted in a long time. It fills his lungs with hot air, pushing it all out in one blow. It feels nice. It feels powerful.

He runs his hands through his hair again and shakes his head. He closes his eyes, wishing that he could just leave this place and go to the gallery and disappear between the rows and rows of art.

“All I’m going to say,” Harry says softly, “is that whatever  _ this _ is, it’s all his fault.”

“I don’t think that’s a fair assumption, Harry.”

_ Life isn’t fair,  _ he thinks to himself. 


	11. tongue-tied like we've never known

**tongue-tied like we’ve never known**

 

Kissing Louis begins with the feeling that you get when there’s that faint tickle of grass between your toes in the summertime, the heat of the afternoon sun blazing across the small of your back, the sweetness of strawberry juice dripping down your chin. It’s followed by the swoop you feel in your belly when you jump off a swing and the adrenaline from scraping your knees on the gravel. And then there’s the warmth you feel by a burning fire and finally there’s the red hot explosion of a firework booming throughout your body. 

That is what it feels like to kiss Louis, and Harry cannot get enough. 


	12. moon dances over your good side

**moon dances over your good side**

 

At some point the sun slips past the dark curtains of nightfall and the moon emerges, the stars like the twinkle in her eye as she hangs over the city. There’s a record on the player and half empty glasses of red wine on the table and paint pots on the floor next to Louis’ easel. Harry pretends to be flipping through a book as he watches Louis dip his brush into the paints, pressing it against the canvas and flicking his wrist. He sticks his tongue out and squints your eyes as he concentrates, which makes Harry laugh into the pages. 

In the three weeks they have been together, neither Harry nor Louis have ever used the terms  _ boyfriend _ or  _ partner _ . It’s always just  _ Harry _ or  _ Louis _ . They don’t use the terms  _ dating _ or  _ relationship _ . It’s always just  _ someone I’m seeing _ or  _ boy I know _ . And it’s okay like this. But every so often Harry catches himself staring at something beautiful and thinking about how he would love to have Louis by his side to see it. Or he’ll see a newlywed couple and think about how amazing it would be to get married to Louis. 

Usually he’s fine without labels. But Harry wants to label this. 

Harry sets the book down and takes a sip of wine before walking to where Louis stands. His arms find their way around Louis’ waist and his lips to Louis’ neck and he can feel the rise and fall of Louis’ shoulders as he inhales.

“How does it look?” Louis asks.

“Wonderful,” Harry says, although he’s not sure what it is. 

“You’re a liar,” Louis chuckles, and he turns his face to give Harry a quick kiss. 

The way Louis does it is so automatic and second nature that Harry’s taken aback for a moment. Louis giggles, leaning back into his touch. He rests his cheek against the top of Louis’ head. 

“Can I draw you?” Louis whispers. Harry nods his head. 

Louis takes Harry by the fingertips to his bedroom, telling him to position himself in whatever way is most comfortable. Harry asks if he can just lie down and Louis smiles so softly, his lips brushing against Harry’s. 

“Do whatever makes you comfortable,” Louis says. 

So Harry lies down, his arms folded behind his head, and he stares at the speckled ceiling. He can hear the faint scratch of pencil against paper, the shallow breath rising in and out of Louis’ lungs. A rose coloured veil hangs over their heads, billowing around them, blocking out any negativity. Harry is aware of everything: of the hitch in Louis’ breath, of the pencil scratching against paper, of the way his sweater hangs loosely against his body. And it strikes Harry that he can move in whichever way he’d like. There’s no photographer bending him into strange positions. There’s no stylist dressing him like a doll. 

He is free.

So he starts crying. There’s a smile on his face and laughter fills his lungs but the tears pour down his cheeks. Louis looks up at him, and Harry wants to tell him that everything is okay, to keep on drawing. But Louis is by his side, his hand resting on his chest, concern knitting his brows together. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Why are you crying?”

Harry shakes his head, resting his hand on Louis’ thigh. “I’m just really happy, that’s all.”

Relief washes over Louis’ face. He grabs Harry’s hand, intertwining their fingers together, kissing the tips of their fingers. It sends tendrils of warm flowing through Harry’s veins.

Louis nestles himself beside Harry. They are two boys in the universe lying next to each other and placing the gentlest of kisses along the soft canvas of skin stretched across their bones. Harry’s body is surrounded by a warm haze from being so close to Louis, the sweet familiar smell of him engulfing Harry. 

At one point Louis gets up and places a cigarette between his teeth and Harry watches as the ribbons of smoke dance around his head. Like Michelangelo’s  _ David _ , Louis is hard and soft in the right places, his gaze set and unwavering.

Harry wants to keep this moment forever, wants to capture the way Louis’ body is bent and the way his eyelashes brush against the top of his cheeks and the way his lips curl. Harry lifts his camera to his eye and he takes the picture, knowing in his heart that no amount of film can capture just how beautiful Louis is. 

Louis turns his head to look at Harry. A surprised and sheepish smile cuts into his face as he spots the camera in Harry’s hands, and before he can turn his head away again, Harry kisses his cheek. Then he kisses Louis’ lips. And Louis chuckles, so Harry reaches his hand out and takes a picture. 

Their kiss is soft and slow and sloppy, but they’re both still smiling. Harry can feel the tears staining his cheeks and normally that would stop him, but this feels so right and so good. 

Somewhere,  _ Dancing Queen _ rises through the night. 

“I  _ love _ this song,” Harry murmurs. He raises his arms above his head and begins shimmying his shoulders and shuffling his feet and his lips clumsily move to the words. Louis laughs and joins Harry in singing.   


“Come on,” Harry says, reaching out for Louis’ waist, “let’s dance.”

Louis rolls his eyes, takes a couple steps back as Harry shimmies closer to him. Harry can’t help it: the night is electrifying, Louis is so splendid, and his body is full of happy candor. He takes Louis’ hand, clumsily weaving their fingers together, moving his body in whatever way the music tells him to. He stumbles on an empty paint pot and tumbles into Louis in a fit of giggles.

“Are you drunk?” Louis chuckles. 

“Am not,” Harry protests. “I’m just happy. S’all there is to it.”

“I’m happy too,” Louis says.

The music wavers in the distance, leaving the boys to sway to the songs in their heads. Louis rests his head on Harry’s chest and places his hand on the small of his back. Harry can feel patterns being etched into his skin and he shivers when he feels two teardrop shapes come together.

“Hey,” Harry whispers. 

“Hey,” Louis says back.

“You’re really beautiful.”

“Harry-” 

“No, I mean it,” Harry says.

“Thank you,” Louis says.

“You’re welcome.”

“I love you.”

He says it as though it’s as natural as breathing. It’s automatic, as though he was born to say it. Like it’s no big deal. And yet the words have anchored in Harry’s brain, the only calm amongst the chaos.


	13. we're not who we used to be

**we're not who we used to be**

 

When the phone rings, Harry is lying in bed in his pyjamas scrolling through Louis’ old Facebook photos and wondering who this boy beside him is.

Harry answers, and without a second to breathe, the Man’s voice is loud in the receiver.

“Big news,” the Man says. “Can you come in today at two o’clock?”

Harry glances at the clock. It’s noon.

“I guess,” he mumbles. “Do I have to be presentable? Or am I just seeing you?”

“Very funny,” the Man says, “but you never know who may be wandering these halls. You always want to look your best.”

 _I am trying so hard_ , he wants to say. _I am trying so hard to look my best._

“Sure,” Harry says.

“Okay, kiddo,” He says. He’s never said that before and it seems so fake, but still a part of his heart warms up. “See you then.”

When he hangs up, the silence fills the empty spaces of the apartment. He puts a record on as he steps into the shower, but that doesn’t fill the gaps. He turns it up louder as he fumbles with the clothes that don’t fit anymore, chucking them back into the dresser when they fall too loosely over his body in the wrong ways.

By the time he's ready to head out the door, he looks like the complete opposite of his best.

As Harry locks the door, he slips his phone out of his pocket and there’s a message from Louis. His heart leaps, which seems silly, but a smile creeps across his face.

  
**dreamt about u last night. miss ur smile. hope u have a good day :) L**

It’s the smiley face that gets him.

His feet are hitting the pavement, taking Harry in the direction of the train, as his thumbs move quickly across the keyboard to type out a message. He keeps writing then deleting because nothing seems like it’s enough. Louis deserves the world, and Harry can’t give it to him  in less than 100 characters.

He's about to press send when he crashes into a body and his phone is sent tumbling to the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry mutters quickly, his cheeks burning already.

“No no, it’s my bad,” the person says, handing Harry his phone. Their accent is thick and foreign; when Harry looks up, he almost chokes.

Harry hasn't seen him in years, not since he came on exchange and left for university. He hasn’t changed a bit; he’s still got those bright eyes and bubbling smile. Harry wants to hide.

“My God,” he says, “Harry Styles.”

Harry's silent for a minute. Then, “Hey, Niall.”

Niall smiles at Harry but he can’t tell if it’s genuine happiness or if he's masking his anger. It’s been years since they last spoke, not since their graduation. Niall gave him a gift -  a camera and two rolls of colour film. Harry didn’t get him anything. He didn’t want to.

Harry's heart is beating beating beating against his chest and he can’t hear anything in his ears except for that beating and Niall's words when he speaks.

“It’s been a long time,” Niall says.

Harry nods. He tries to find the words but they never come.

“I saw your picture on some billboard back home,” Niall tells him, and there’s a slight twinge of both pride and disgust in his voice. “It looks good. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Harry manages to croak, a smile cracking through his frozen face.

Niall nods, adjusts the newsboy cap on his head. Both of them stay in place as the crowd moves around them, hurrying to get onto their trains for work or appointments or whatever it is that normal people do. Harry tries to apologize, to ask for Niall's forgiveness, but the words aren't there. And maybe it’s because a small part of him isn’t sorry but mostly it’s because a big part of him is.

“Hey,” Niall says finally, a real smile spreading on his face, “I’ve actually got a job here now and I don’t really know the city the way I used to. I know we kind of left things on a rough note but I’m willing to leave all that in the past if you’re willing to try being friends again.”

Harry knows that he doesn’t deserve this. After what he did, after the way he didn’t even say _goodbye_ to Niall when he left, Harry doesn’t deserve this. Yet Harry's nodding his head and saying yeah, he'd really like that, and is Niall busy tomorrow afternoon maybe they could go get a coffee or something to eat, and Niall's laughing and says that yeah, they should go get some supper and that he’s off work at around 5:30 and Harry says that’s cool and he'll text him the place to meet whenever he’s done. They swap phones and put their names into each other's contacts. Niall smiles when he hands Harry's back.

“You’ve gotta tell me who that Louis fella is,” he says, and Harry's ears prickle because how did he know? Then he realizes that he has no contacts that start with an _M_ so of course he saw the hearts next to Louis’ name right above his. Niall laughs and touches his arm. “It’s okay, mate. I’m just teasing.”

A small chuckle manages to leave Harry's throat. It feels so raw. He checks the time and it’s almost 1:45.

“Well, um, it was really nice to see you,” he says, and he really means it. “I have to go though.”

He nods, giving Harry another friendly arm touch and says, “See you later.”

Harry watches as Niall turns and goes to another platform before he heads to his own train. As he steps on, his body feels a little bit warmer.


	14. comfortable silence is so overrated

**comfortable silence is so overrated**

 

“So what is this Big News?” Harry asks as he stumbles into the Man’s office. Surprisingly, Harry is not late, so the Man dismisses the cool tone of his voice. 

The man flashes a great big smile full of false white teeth and gestures for Harry to sit down. Harry chews the inside of his lip as he takes a seat, crossing his leg across the other and resting his head in his palm. The Man types something quickly then turns His computer monitor around, showing Harry a white screen with splotches of red and blue. 

“What is this?” Harry asks. 

The Man sighs, rubbing His eyes with His fingers. “It is the next project I want you to do.”

“I don’t understand what this means,” Harry tells Him.

“It’s a commission,” He explains, “put up by one of the biggest names in fashion. It’s so big that their publicity people won’t tell anybody who it is. But they’ve sent this to all the agencies and want their models to do something with it.”

Harry shakes his head. “What do you want me to do with a blank nothingness with a few speckles of red and blue?”

The Man rolls His eyes. “Didn’t you say that you wanted to make art? Open your mind, boy! This is one of the most elaborate projects you can do. There is no direction. At least, not yet. We need to put together a creative team that will help consult with you. The designer says they want the models to come up with their own shots, so basically just tell the team what you think it needs and then they’ll do the rest. You can design clothes, right? Or you can do it nude, maybe -”

“Who says I want to do it?”

The silence that follows cuts through Harry’s belly, stabbing him again and again each time He blinks at Harry. 

“I don’t  _ care _ if you don’t want to do it,” the Man seethes, “you are  _ going _ to do it because I  _ told _ you to.”

His words are so sharp that Harry can feel tears prickling the back of his eyeballs. 

“I just feel like I should be able to choose what projects I do,” Harry tells Him, trying to quell the waver in his voice. 

The Man stares at Harry. The Man doesn’t move or blink. Harry feels like a rabbit, his nose twitching and his heart slamming against his chest  _ babumbabumbabum.  _ The Man leans forward in His chair and Harry flinches, his fingers curling around the arms of the chair, his nails digging into the leather.

“I know what’s best for you, Harry,” the Man explains cooly, “so what I say is what you do. Do you understand?”

_ No, I don’t understand at all. _

“Yes,” Harry tells Him, “I understand.”

He nods, then His eyes look at Harry up and down. “We also need to discuss your chart.”

Harry swallows the lump in his throat.

“Clients want our boys looking more androgynous,” He explains, pulling up photos of boys with shaggy hair and red lips and toothpick bodies. “I think that right now you look too...full in certain areas.”

Harry’s heart sinks and his skin goes cold. “What do you mean?”

The Man grimaces and pulls out a pocket notebook. When Harry opens it, he’s met with boxes of instructions on what to eat, what helps make you feel fuller, what exercises are best on certain days. Harry wants to tell him that he doesn’t need it, that his doctor says he shouldn’t be around this shit anymore. But. The Man’s words echo in his head, repeating themselves over and over again like a chant. 

“So, just follow this, and I’m sure we’ll get even more clients,” the Man says. 

Harry nods slowly. “Okay.”

Instead of taking the train home, he walks, so it takes twice as long. By the time he gets back, his hands are balled in fists and his body feels like a block of ice. He pulls two sweaters over his head, but when he glances at his reflection in the mirror, he hates the way the fabric makes his body looks big and bulky, so he quickly rips them off and puts a T-shirt on. There are goosebumps on his arms. 

There’s a note on his laptop in Gemma’s scribbly shorthand that he learned while he helped her study it in school. 

**_Came home early; out running errands now. There’s a bowl of pasta in the fridge. It better be gone by the time I get back! I’ll text you when I’m on my way home. Love you! G. x_ **

He trudges into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water and opens the fridge. There it is, sitting inconspicuously in a bowl with blue waves that his dad got at a yard sale. He takes it out and stabs the noodles with his fork, swirls them around a bit in their red sauce. He shoves a forkful in his mouth and chews. Eventually he swallows. Then the Man’s words coming swirling back in his head and his body feels numb. 

He’s shaking as he runs to the bathroom. He’s shaking as he fumbles to take his phone out of the pocket of his jeans, and he’s shaking as his phone slips from his fingers and lands on the edge of the bathtub, skidding onto the tiles. He doesn’t care. He kneels in front of the toilet and then everything becomes blurry.

Suddenly, there’s vomit in the toilet and a bowl of pasta in the trash can and tears streaming down his face. His throat burns and his lips feel so raw, as though they’ve been scrubbed down to the last layer of skin. Harry tries to stand up but he is a deer in headlights, shaking and dazed. From somewhere in the pit of his throat a sob escapes and Harry forces his hand over his mouth. He needs to keep the noises in. He needs to keep everything inside of him before he crumbles. 

The thunder of his phone vibrating against the bathroom tiles makes his heart leap. He stretches his arm and his fingers just barely clasp it; the screen is cracked from when he dropped it on the tub. There’s a message from Gemma saying that she’ll be home in twenty minutes, she just needs to stop by the pharmacy, and does he need anything? It takes all the strength in his body to type the word  _ no _ . 

Harry slumps against the edge of the bathtub and stares at the leaking showerhead. His mouth tastes rancid. His teeth feel like thin sheets of paper. His stomach groans. A bubble of darkness forms in the pit of his stomach, stretching out and reaching for the other parts of his body. He squeezes his eyes shut, urging it to go away. His father’s face pops up behind his eyelids, his disapproving voice booming in Harry’s ears as he grabs his hair. Harry clasps his hands against the sides of his head, forcing his father out. Then there’s The Man’s face, soft and yet so rough around the edges. He shakes His head, pokes at Harry’s ribs and Harry’s hips and Harry’s collarbone. Harry tries to scream but Nothing comes out. 

For the next five minutes Harry sits with his knees folded against his chest and his lungs gasping for air. When he starts Feeling again, he pushes himself to his feet and stares at the broken reflection in the smooth mirror. His eyes are swollen and his lips are bright red and there’s vomit in his hair. He scrubs his face with cold water until there’s red splotches across his skin. He looks deranged and he likes it. 

Before Gemma gets home, Harry flushes the toilet and scrubs it with the toilet brush until the acidic stench is replaced by lemon scented chemicals. He takes the trash bag out of the kitchen bin and throws it down the chute, the crunch of glass echoing. He brushes his teeth and rinses his mouth with mouthwash and he even flosses. He tosses his clothes in the laundry hamper and changes into an old sweater that says  _ World’s Best Dad! _ which he stole from his dad after everything happened. Harry parks himself on the couch and turns the television on, surfing from channel to channel as he tries to get his body to just stay still. Then there’s the key in the door and he thinks to himself,  _ Be cool. _

“You will not  _ believe _ the day I’ve had,” Gemma says when she walks in. 

“What happened?” Harry mumbles, trying to seem slightly disinterested. 

“The boss man keeps assigning us story after story. They’re not even that interesting, which is what makes everything so  _ tedious _ right now.” She carries her bags into the kitchen and Harry offers to help her put away groceries.

“That really sucks,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m sure that things are going to pick up soon. Hey, are we missing a bowl?”

_ Shit _ . 

“Um,” Harry says, trying to act as though he has no idea what she’s talking about. “I don’t think so.”

“No, we’re definitely missing a bowl,” Gemma says. “The one with the waves along the top. I put some food in there for you this morning. Did you eat it?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. It was really good. Thanks.”

Gemma stares at him. “So where’s the bowl?”

Harry swallows the lump in his throat then shrugs his shoulders. “I put it in the dishwasher.”

She stares at him a beat longer before reaching to open the dishwasher. Of course, it’s not in there. She glances at him again before checking the trash bin. 

“You took out the trash?” she says. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I thought I could be of help.”

She nods. “Right. I’ll be back.”

He watches as she disappears down the hallway. There’s a few minutes that pass before she comes back holding his vomit stained T-shirt.

“Harry,” is all she says, her lip wobbling. 

There’s nothing he can say to her. So they just stand in deafening silence. He can’t even look at her because he doesn’t want to see the pain contorting her face. He’s seen it so many times and he can’t look at that again, not now.

It hurts because he has already caused her so much pain. He knows that he has, even though she never admits it. And Harry hasn’t been there for her as often as he should be, and that makes it hurt even more.

“Harry,” she says, “what happened?”

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Stop,” she says. “Tell me the truth.”

So he tells her a skewed version of the truth. He tells her that he felt sick after eating her pasta. He tells her that he felt so sick that he had to throw the bowl out, and that he didn’t know why he threw the bowl out, but he just did. And he tells her that he threw up and dropped his phone by accident because he was shaking. And because he doesn’t want her to think that her cooking poisoned him, he tells her that maybe he’s sick.

Mostly she looks unconvinced. But she says, “Are you sure that’s what happened?”

He nods. It’s mostly a lie, but it also isn’t. This is what he keeps telling himself so that he doesn’t feel like a bad person.


End file.
